


Mistletoe Crown

by Cerch



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Background Relationships, Court Sorcerer Merlin, F/F, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Pining, Tournaments, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-04 02:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5317415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerch/pseuds/Cerch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Elena wants to win Camelot's midwinter tournament and Mithian's heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistletoe Crown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sassafrasx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassafrasx/gifts).



> Dear Sassafrasx,
> 
> Happy holidays! I loved your prompts to pieces and I had hard time choosing between them. Here you have lady knights, fluff and pining, also featuring hapless court sorcerer Merlin (though Arthur, I'm afraid, is more besotted than exasperated). I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Thank you mods for all your hard work!

Midwinter is drawing closer colder than in years.

The cold feels like an assault of dozens of tiny needles on Elena’s cheeks as they ride slowly through the forest buried into silence by the snow that had fallen during the night. The blanket on the road is enough to swallow even the clip of hooves and Elena half wonders, looking at the trees bent under the heavy snow, if maybe they have left mortal realms altogether and ridden into the _sidhe_ through some hidden fairy-ring.

Above the sky is still heavy with the grey-white clouds promising more snow – Elena hopes they will make it to Camelot before they fulfil their word. Stiff as an old woman in her countless layers of wool and leather she turns around in her saddle towards Gwen riding behind her. Gwen’s one hand is resting casually on the hilt of the sword strapped on the saddle, ever watchful, ever prepared, sweetness armed with hard steel. Only her eyes are visible between the hood of her dark cloak and bright red scarf lifted up to cover her nose.

Elena waves her hand to indicate canter and turns away pretending not to notice that Gwen begins to shake her head. Enid, her beautiful bay mare leans against her bit, sensing Elena’s intentions and with a pleased smile Elena gives her the rein. They fly forward like an arrow shot by a crossbow.

A wild, exhilarated laugh bubbles at the back of her throat, escaping as a puff of white steam into the air and she lets herself enjoy the speed for a moment before she reins Enid back enough to allow Gwen, whose horse is carrying most of the supplies, to keep up, and they continue easy, relaxed canter towards Camelot.

~*~

The city comes into view just as the first huge snowflakes start floating down in a gentle dance. There isn’t much sunlight left, but the snow lends them its gentle glow and warm torches greet them at the gates. The guard asks them for their business, grumpy with the cold no doubt creeping into his old bones, but melts under the force of Gwen’s smile. Sometimes Elena thinks Gwen would make a far better princess than she does. Elena is awkward and far from sweet, and she enjoys fighting more than politics, while Gwen is both clever and charming – Elena is beyond lucky to have her.

Well, Gwen can be awkward as well, she thinks biting back a laugh watching how Gwen splutters when the guard calls her a lady.

He bows when they ride past and Elena waves back cheerfully while Gwen looks like she wants to sink underground.

As they near the castle nervousness settles into Elena’s bones and flutters unpleasantly in her stomach. As a reigning champion Mithian will be present to open the ceremonies and crown the winner, and in her last letter she has assured Elena she would be there to welcome her. Elena has missed her with a terrible ache that threatens to turn into terror.

She realised she was in love with Mithian when she was sixteen, though she suspects the feelings might have been there even when they were but small children, playing with each other while their parents were busy being important. Mithian had been a proper little princess, sitting quietly out of the way of the adults until Elena had dragged her into her elaborate games of knights, warrior queens and dragons. The scolding they had gotten in the evening for ruining their dresses had been entirely worth it when Mithian had made a rude gesture at their parents back with a shy and guilty look, making Elena burst into a fit of giggles.

Elena sighs. She doesn’t even know if Mithian likes girls. She had been in love with Arthur when she was thirteen, and in one of her recent letters she had written _I have to marry soon._

_Marry me_ , Elena had whispered as she carefully tucked the letter away to the small box she kept at the back of her drawer.

The winner of Camelot’s midwinter tournament would be crowned with the ancient mistletoe crown, rumoured to possess magic granting the wearer luck in love. It might be only a pretty tale for all Elena knows, but she thinks if she can win, prove herself, and wear the crown she can also find the courage to confess Mithian how she feels.

~*~

As by magic – probably by magic, actually – Arthur and Merlin, his court sorcerer and rumoured lover, are waiting at the steps of the castle. The light of the torches behind them leaves their features hidden, and their shadows stretch long across the courtyard to welcome them. Elena cranes her neck to the side to see if maybe Mithian is waiting somewhere in the doorway, but only empty air gazes back, and somehow it hurts even though Mithian probably doesn’t even know she has arrived.

She looks back at Arthur and grins, wiping away her glum thoughts, because she has missed him too. Last time they had met had been at his coronation almost a year ago and that didn’t count because Arthur had been too busy being kingly to even have a proper conversation with her. She fully intends to give him a proper hug, which she does succeed at – though it’s more that she trips on the first step and falls straight into him. These things happen to her all the time though, so she simply rolls with it and wraps her arms around him as he stumbles backward with a surprised grunt. He does eventually squeeze her back equally tightly, which she counts as a victory.

Then she notices a huge black cat sitting behind Merlin’s feet. It’s at least the size of Elena’s hunting dogs and she wonders if she is a gift from some foreign dignitary. One of its ears points upwards while the tip of the other one is bent and there is something else undefinably odd about it, which really makes it look all the more charming.

“Who is this?” she coos, dropping down to offer her hand to be sniffed.

Arthur lets out a strange, chocked sound and Elena looks up in concern, but he seems to be simply trying to bite back laughter. She glances at Merlin questioningly only to find him beet red, staring determinedly anywhere else than at Elena or Arthur.

“He –“ Arthur starts, but it turns into laughter. Elena stares in fascination – kingship has clearly done Arthur good.

“I might have accidentally brought one of the statues into life,” Merlin mutters. “And I can’t figure out how to undo it. And he won’t stop following me around.”

“Useless,” Arthur says, still grinning, and loops an arm around Merlin’s waist while Merlin protests very unconvincingly.

“I could take care of him!” Elena volunteers brightly, and that’s how she acquires a new friend, who does follow her quite gladly when she produces a piece of dried meat from her bag.

~*~

Gwen is bustling around, arranging their belongings neatly while Elena sits on the fur in front of the fire, absentmindedly petting the cat and wondering if Mithian knows she has arrived. Having to wait until morning seems unfair when they’re finally so close to each other.

Elena discovers the cat is actually a she when she stretches down to the floor, baring her stomach. Of course Arthur and Merlin had just assumed without actually checking.

“I am going to name her Freya, like that shapeshifting girl in that song,” she decides.

Gwen hums in agreement.

Elena is also going to declare that there is no way Freya is getting turned back into stone when there is a knock on the door. Freya swishes her tail in annoyance, green eyes turning to stare at the door accusingly. Frowning, Gwen puts the shirt she is holding away and cracks the door slightly to peer into the hallway.

Elena is halfway to the door when she recognises the voice on the other side.

She cuts Mithian’s apology about disturbing them so late off mid-sentence by wrenching the door completely open.

_She is so pretty,_ Elena thinks as they stare at each other, by some cruel twist of fate even prettier than she was when they last met. When Mithian smiles her familiar small smile it’s positively unfair.

“Ellie!” she breathes out, and steps forward to wrap her into a gentle hug. Elena presses herself in more tightly and buries her nose in Mithian’s hair, breathing in pine and faint smoke, the same smell that lingers in Elena’s room.

After both too many and too few shared heartbeats they step back, a bit awkward, and at least Elena too warm in her skin.

“We have some wine?” she offers, but Mithian shakes her head.

“It’s late,” she says. “I only – wanted to see you. It’s been too long.”

“It has!” The words escape before she has a chance to temper them.

Mithian glances at her feet, and Elena wonders if she has been too forceful and quick once again.

“I mean,” she tries, scrambling for something to tamper the awkwardness. “I have missed you and I’m glad you came to see me.”

She winces inwardly, face hot. Definitely not any better, she thinks, but Mithian looks up from her shoes and smiles, one corner of her mouth tilting up more than the other.

“Me too. Ah, are you going to practice grounds tomorrow morning?”

“Yes?” Of course she is.

“I’ll come and see you there then?” She shifts her weight from one foot from another, as if nervous.

“I’d like that,” Elena says, pleased if puzzled.

Mithian gives her a fleeting smile. “I will leave you to your rest then, I’m sorry I disturbed you.” Her hand grazes briefly against Elena’s arm while she nods at Gwen. “Good night,” she says over her shoulder.

Elena looks after her retreating figure until Gwen gently tugs her inside and closes the door, an amused expression on her lips that Elena doesn’t dare to ask about and that doesn’t fade until she blows the candles out. It might not fade even then, but at least Elena cannot see it in the dark.

~*~

Gwen’s sword comes down to Elena’s raised shield with strength that leaves them both reeling. Elena staggers back, arm echoing with the vibrations of the metal and hurting like fuck. _Useless._ She lets it drop. If Gwen’s sword arm is near to same level of uselessness – she propels herself forward, spins around Gwen’s hastily raised shield and lifts the tip of her sword to the base of Gwen’s throat.

Gwen’s eyes meet hers over her shoulder and then she drops her sword as a mark of defeat.

Slow clapping fills the air and blushing Elena withdraws her sword, feeling suddenly clumsy. She knows she should have relaxed more against Gwen’s hit –.

“You were both brilliant,” Mithian exclaims, leaving her vantage point at the edge of the field, Freya following in tow.

“I should’ve –“ Elena starts, but Mithian holds up a hand to silence her.

“Brilliant. You have both improved so much from the last time I saw you.”

“Thank you,” Gwen says and Elena nods enthusiastically to agree.

Mithian gives her a thoughtful look. “If you aren’t too tired would you do me the honour of a bout?”

Elena manages to say yes – though not without some spluttering and visibly pleased Mithian sends a squire to get her chainmail and sword.

~*~

“They’re good,” Mithian says as they wait, gesturing towards two figures whirling at each other at the opposite end of the grounds. Their movements lift up a shower of snow, which glimmers in silver and gold as the sunlight hits it. Both of the combatants are wearing Camelot’s red but with the helmets on it’s impossible to tell who they are. Suddenly, the other figure kicks up a huge cloud of snow and dives inside the other person’s defences and sweeps them off their feet.

“Wow,” Elena says, but it comes out bit faintly. She suddenly feels much less confident in her own abilities to win. “Do you think they’re taking part?”

Mithian’s hand wraps around hers, warm and comforting.

“Maybe. But you’ll be fine and it will be beautiful.”

~*~

Mithian is not wearing a helmet and so Elena leaves hers out as well, tying her hair back with clumsy fingers that seem to get tangled up in every strand. She hasn’t sparred with Mithian for years. _She is going to spar with Mithian._ Mithian who is beautiful and the best swordsman in the whole Albion (possibly excluding Arthur who was the reigning champion for years before making up a rule that the champion could not compete next year after their victory, excluding himself for a year for each of his own victories).  She is going to sweep the ground – well, snow – with Elena, and honestly Elena can’t imagine anything better. Apart from kissing Mithian and taking her to bed but that’s a different story altogether.

_I wish I didn’t love you so bloody much,_ she thinks with an edge of despair as Mithian lifts her gleaming practice sword, eyes dark and body posed like predators, beautiful and dangerous. Beautifully dangerous. Dangerously beautiful. With a stuttering exhale Elena mirrors her, focusing herself. The sword is light in her hand, and the world outside herself and her opponent fades away.

“Ready?” Gwen asks from somewhere far away. Elena nods, eyes on Mithian who nods as well. “Begin!”

Neither of them strikes straight away, instead settling into circling each other, waiting for other to make a hasty move. The snowy ground is treacherous, eating a bit of power from every step, making committing to an attack dangerous.

The game of waiting and preying does not suit Elena; she is not good at it, but she is good at getting out of it so the moment sun hits Mithian’s eyes she launches forward, shield first. Mithian is too good to be defeated by such a simple move, Elena thinks with glowing admiration as Mithian easily deflects her and uses the momentum of their hit to twist Elena forwards, but it’s no matter because the standstill has broken and Elena easily reflects the blow that follows.

Sword. Shield. Sword. Sword. Step back. She is full of euphoria, though her mouth tastes like blood and the cold air has set her lungs on fire.

She feints left, Mithian’s eyes following her movement – and everything turns into white, blinding wall of snow and a heartbeat later the cold edge of sword touches her neck.

Elena stares at the smirk on Mithian’s lips, her rosy cheeks and challenging eyes and it takes her a moment to work out what happened. She drops her sword and shield and glares accusingly.

“You used the same trick as the knight from earlier!”

Mithian lowers her sword with a nod. “You should have been prepared for it.”

Elena purses her lips and nods reluctantly, but it’s worth it when Mithian wraps a rough arm around her shoulders. It’s too hot and she smells like sweat and the metal of her chainmail, but Elena leans into her gratefully, relishing the companionship and touch, trying to remember that it might not be anything more than friendship.

~*~

Elena spends the night before the tournament awake, staring into the shadows of the fire dancing in the hearth and petting Freya who has burrowed into the sheets between her and Gwen. Logically she knows whether she wins or loses has nothing to do with her and Mithian and yet. Yet. She buries her face into the pillow and tries to force herself to sleep.

 ~*~

Elena would dearly love getting straight into the fighting because her nerves are clawing at her insides and the small breakfast Gwen forced on her is threatening to make its way up. She needs to _do_ something, but instead she has to sit like a proper princess in the royal stand while Arthur gives a speech. She has no idea what it is about because the words stopped making sense after the first sentence but everybody else seems to be enchanted and some of the people are cheering.

Merlin particularly is beaming with pride and then blushes furiously when Arthur gestures at him. He stands up, looking impressive in the dark, official robes inlaid with gold, and lifts his hands. A burning crest of Camelot appears on the air above the tournament grounds, flaming bring for a moment before the dragon in it turns golden, gaining more defined shape before flying forward with a whoosh of its wings, circling above the stands and leaving a wave of golden embers in its wake. Holding her breath Elena reaches for one that floats down towards her, letting it fall to her palm where it gleams for a moment before blinking out. Merlin shrugs at her apologetically, then frowns as the dragons bows at them before slowly fading away into rain of pink, glowing flowers.

“I did not mean for it to do that,” blushing Merlin whispers to Arthur, who seems momentarily so painfully besotted that it’s rather embarrassing but also terribly sweet. Morgana, Arthur’s sister, hides a smirk behind her hand and nudges Arthur with her foot, reminding him about the outside world.

Clearing his throat Arthur looks at his people, shredding Arthur the man in favour of Arthur the king who seems to shine like a figure out of myth and legend and proclaims:

“Let the tournament begin!”

Elena suddenly remembers her nerves.

~*~

Mithian comes to wish her luck as she is waiting for her first match. She had been sitting in the royal stand as well, but on the different side as Elena and they haven’t had any time to speak. Now fates seem to have decided to give them one nerve wracking moment before Elena goes and makes a fool out of herself.

“I’m going to trip over my own feet and die,” she blurts out.

Mithian’s eyes widen in surprise before she shakes her head firmly. “Ellie, you’re going to be fantastic!”

“Thanks,” she says shortly, tongue thick and clumsy in her mouth, glancing desperately towards the arena where the first pair is still locked in combat.

“Oh,” Mithian says, sounding strangely subdued. “I’m bothering you, aren’t I? I’m sorry, I just wanted to say good luck.”

_Bothering?_ _No, of course she isn’t –._   Mithian reaches towards Elena’s arm, but hesitates, which is just so wrong that Elena grabs her hand into hers.

“Can I wear your favour?” _Oh god._ She wishes she had magic so she could go back in time and not say that. She drops Mithian’s hand in favour of covering her burning face with her hands.

“Of course you can.”

Her mouth is already open, starting to form an apology before she registers Mithian’s answer, repeating it few times in her head just in case she has misunderstood the meaning, but somehow Mithian seems to be completely indisputably saying something Elena’s mind insists should be impossible. _Maybe she is being kind,_ she thinks and peers carefully at Mithian from between her fingers. There are red spots on Mithian’s cheeks and she is holding out a blue silk ribbon that had been tied into her hair just moments before.

Elena seems to have lost the command over her tongue completely so instead of saying anything she lifts her right arm and Mithian ties the ribbon around it, letting her hands linger. Elena stares at Mithian’s leather gloves and blue favour resting against the silver of her chainmail and wonders if this is a dream. Before she can ask she is called forward to the field. 

~*~

It’s a miracle she wins the first match because her mind refuses to think anything else apart from _MithianMithianMithianMithian_.

When her opponent slips on a charge and ends up face first in the snow, Elena’s sword poking at his ribs before he can get up, she looks up to the stands and meets Mithian’s gaze and thinks _maybe._

~*~

The day rolls forward in a haze of adrenaline. For the first round two pairs fight at the different ends of the arena, speeding up the proceedings, and the second match comes almost sooner than Elena is ready for it.

Her second opponent is a man named Gwaine with fabulous hair and fabulous skills that are almost match for Elena – efficiently forcing her to centre her focus. Then there is Enmyria who is dangerously agile but fights too carelessly and Morgause who is too strong and skilful and bloody scary, but Elena manages to defeat her too after a long and exhausting match.

Finally she somehow finds herself on the arena facing Morgana for the title of the champion. She is tired, yet excitement and nervousness tingle through her. So close.

They take their positions; Arthur lifts his arms, casting a long shadow in the light of the setting sun.

“Fight!”

Their swords greet each carefully, asking: _What are you? Who are you? Are you strong? Tired?_ Morgana’s hit doesn’t feel tired and she dances backwards quickly, forcing Elena to follow. The moment she notices the deeper snow under Morgana’s feet she knows what is to follow.

She counters Morgana’s attempt to sweep the snow up to her face with her leg but unbalances herself dangerously, barely managing to block Morgana’s retaliation hit and retreat to gather herself. Morgana follows, poking and probing with short jabs that leave Elena little time for anything else than defence.

_I’m going to lose,_ she realises with paralyzing clarity, while Morgana twists her sword away from her desperate fingers. It twists in the air, falling few feet away onto the trampled snow, clattering quietly. She tries to dive for it, but Morgana’s sword stops her.

“Do you yield?” Morgana asks, and Elena looks at the silk ribbon on her arm, the snow under her feet, thinks about honour and listens to the beginning of cheers from the audience.

She thinks back on her and Mithian’s bout from the day before and finds Mithian from the stands, watching quietly, eyes meeting Elena’s almost instantly.

Elena smiles at Morgana. “No.”

She kicks a cloud of snow up and drops back and down away from Morgana, to her sword, turning around to clutch it like a lifeline. A shadow falls on her, and Elena kicks blindly backwards. Morgana tumbles down with an oof and Elena rolls on her, legs on both sides of her body and sword in her hand.

“Do you yield?”

For a beat Morgana remains taunt and irrationally Elena wonders if maybe she still has some tick up her sleeve, but then she sighs, muscles relaxing.

“I yield,” Morgana’s voice rings out, and around them a dam of silence breaks in the darkening midwinter evening, drowning them in the sounds of celebration.

~*~

The ceremony is held in the great hall, decorated with ribbons and evergreen and lit with hundreds of candles. Elena kneels, and Arthur presents her with the cloak of the champion made from beautiful indigo, lined with gold, but it’s not the part of the ceremony Elena is most looking forward to. That’s Mithian, stepping up to stand next to Arthur, the mistletoe crown, as old as the midwinter tournaments itself, sitting on her dark curls. She is every inch as regal as the queen she is yet to become.

Slowly she removes her crown, the whole hall hushed into silence.

“The time has come for me to give up the crown of the champion,” she says.

Elena lowers her head, willing herself to stillness as Mithian’s hands place the crown on her head.

“To Princess Elena of Gawaint!”

People cheer and clap and even break into song as Elena rises and turns to face the mass of people behind her with a wave that feels a bit inadequate, but does nothing to deter the cheers.

She feels tall and powerful, and though her face is hot and her hands sweaty she also feels like perhaps she belongs.

~*~

It is not easy for the guest of honour to sneak out of a party, but after people have had too many drinks and danced to too many songs most have long since forgotten what they are actually celebrating and Elena manages to excuse herself for fresh air.

Large snowflakes are floating slowly down from the black sky when she climbs up to the battlements. The cold has given up its cruellest bite, but she is still glad for her long, warm dress. She squints down to the darkness of the city broken only by few pitiful flames, gathering her thoughts that have remained scattered all evening.

Tomorrow she will talk to Mithian and explain her feelings. Almost unconsciously her fingers rise to fiddle with the silk ribbon Gwen had skilfully woven into her braid.

Below her a door opens and closes, and she turns to look, almost not daring to hope.

“You sneaked out of your own party,” Mithian muses as she approaches.

Elena shrugs. It’s rather obvious that she has done exactly that. “What did you expect?”

“That you would sneak out,” she says, corner of her mouth tilted. She stands next to Elena, close enough that their shoulders are brushing. “Did you know that the mistletoe is supposed to give you luck with love and fertility?” she asks, staring down to the city.

Elena doesn’t dare to turn to look at her properly, afraid of breaking the fragile unknown between them.

“Did it work?”

Mithian shifts, hand twisting around Elena’s neck, and their eyes meet. Mithian has snowflakes on her eyelashes.

“I hope so,” she whispers.

Elena leans in, but their noses bump and they have to stop to realign themselves, a short, shared huff of laughter lingering in the small space between them.

“You know,” Elena says before leaning in again. “I think it’s working for me.”


End file.
